[From the Manuscripts of D. D. Mitchell, Esquire.]
I left the Fort early in the morning of the 28th December, accompanied
as usual by my Spaniard and a few Canadian servants. The season thus
far had been uncommonly fine, not a spot of snow was visible on the
prairies, and, as we passed along, the Elk, Antelope, and Fox, were
seen in various directions reposing with all that lazy listlessness
which the warm suns of March and April never fail to produce upon both
man and beast. There was in fact nothing to remind us of the presence
of winter, except the barren nakedness of nature, and the long range
of the rocky mountains whose snowy peaks glittered in the sun, and
whose hoary summits stretching far to the north and south, were
undistinguishable from the white vapory clouds which floated around
them. Towards evening, however, a fresh gale sprung up from the north,
and a very sensible change in the temperature was experienced. We drew
our Buffalo robes closer around us, and jogged on, talking and
laughing away the time, inattentive to the signs of the storm which
was rapidly gathering. A few flakes of snow began to descend, and the
sun became suddenly obscured. We were now sensible that a snow storm
of unusual violence was fast approaching, and we laid whip to our
horses, in the hope of reaching the shelter afforded by a spot of
timbered ground, about eight miles distant. The tempest however had
already burst upon us in all its fury; large snow-flakes came whirling
and eddying about our heads, which were caught up by the wind before
they could fall to the earth;--darkness and confusion increased every
moment, and in half an hour it was impossible to see ten paces before
us. Our horses now became blind and ungovernable, some dashing away
with their riders across the prairies, heedless of what direction they
took, and others taking a firm and immoveable position with their
heads opposite to the wind and refusing to stir an inch. Of course,
all of us became soon separated. It was of no use to call out to each
other, for our voices were drowned in the roar of the tempest, and
could not be heard twenty steps. In this emergency I dismounted from
my steed, and leaving him to his fate, endeavored to keep myself warm
by vigorous exercise. Blinded and chilled by the wind and snow, I
stumbled forward, groping my way in darkness, and regardless of the
route which I took. At length, having proceeded some distance, I
tumbled headlong into a deep ravine filled with snow, from which, with
all my efforts, enfeebled as I was by fatigue, I was unable to
extricate myself. After some rest and many unavailing trials, I at
length crawled out, and perceiving at some little distance a kind of
shelter formed by an overhanging rock, I immediately sought it, and
wrapping my cloak and blanket around me, sat down in no enviable mood,
contemplating my forlorn and apparently hopeless condition. After
remaining in the ravine about two hours, the fury of the storm
subsided, when on making a careful examination I discovered a place in
the bank which was of comparatively easy ascent, and accordingly
succeeded in gaining the level prairies. I looked around for my
unfortunate companions, but no vestige of them was to be seen. The
snow lay piled up in ridges several feet high, and the wind though
considerably abated, continued to throw its light particles into such
dense masses or clouds as to intercept the view beyond a short
distance. There was a kind of hillock or mound in the prairie, about a
half mile off, to which I directed my steps in the hope that from its
summit I might make some discovery, and I was not disappointed. I
thought that I saw a few hundred yards distant, the whole of my party
collected together, and I instantly turned to join them. Guess my
astonishment, however, when in lieu of my unfortunate comrades, I
recognized my horse standing all benumbed and shivering with cold, in
company with a few old buffalo bulls. I approached very near before
they saw me, but on reaching out my hand to seize my horse's bridle,
the buffaloes took to flight, and whether it was that my horse being a
regular hunter, followed them from habit, or clung to them in the
present instance as companions in misfortune, I do not know,--but so
it was that he scampered off with the rest, and by his ill timed
desertion greatly aggravated my distress. I was now thirty miles from
home,--the night was fast approaching and the weather intensely cold.
What was I to do? If I lay in the open prairie, without the means of
kindling a fire, I knew that the snow would at once be my winding
sheet and grave: the thought too of my companions, and their uncertain
fate, added poignancy to my reflections.
After a few moments of melancholy musing, I determined to pursue my
horse, and if he could not be reclaimed to shoot him on the spot, in
order that I might recover such articles as he carried on his back,
and which might aid me in repelling the cold. I followed for nearly a
mile, the horse and buffalo still walking off before me, when my
patience being entirely exhausted, I took deliberate aim and fired.
The ball however fell short of its mark, the buffaloes ran off at full
speed, and my horse, greatly to my surprise, instead of following the
bad example of flight, suddenly pricked up his ears and looked
inquiringly around. Whether it was that he knew the report of my gun,
which had so often brought down the buffalo, when mounted on his back,
or that he really took compassion on my desolate situation and
repented his ungrateful conduct, it is of course impossible to tell,
but so it was that he turned round and hastened to meet me at a brisk
trot. When he approached very near, he stopped and seemed irresolute,
but having reloaded my gun I was resolved that he should not again
escape. I made towards him as warily as possible, when making a sudden
spring I seized the bridle, and in a few moments was safely seated on
his back.
A moment before I could have exclaimed with the ill-fated Richard, "a
horse! a horse! my kingdom for a horse!" but now that I had reclaimed
my own, I found my situation but little alleviated. The sun had
already sunk far behind the mountains, and the wind, which blew
directly from the north, came with such intense bitterness that in
spite of my clothing and robe, it seemed to penetrate my very vitals.
I gazed round on the boundless prairie, in the hope of descrying some
timbered spot which should serve as a place of refuge, but all was one
dreary waste. Nothing was to be seen but a broad expanse of plain,
undulated by ridges of snow--and nothing heard but the hollow and
mournful gusts which swept over the desolate scene and sounded like a
funeral dirge. My apprehensions were gloomy enough, and losing all
confidence in my own half-bewildered reason, I threw the reins on the
neck of my horse, and giving him the whip, surrendered the choice of
the route to his own better instinct. The sagacious brute seemed
conscious of his new responsibility, and as if to atone for his unkind
treatment after the storm, he gave a loud neigh, and then sprung off
at a sweeping gallop which he continued for an hour and a half. It was
now completely dark, and I was so thoroughly benumbed with cold, that
I could scarcely retain my seat. I felt indeed like one lingering on
the very brink of despair, when my horse suddenly gave another loud
neigh which was instantly returned. He sprang forward with renewed
life and spirit, and in a moment after, upon reaching the top of some
rising ground, a large fire sent up its cheerful blaze to my view; and
to my utter surprise as well as delight, I beheld my companions who
were so recently dispersed by the storm, comfortably seated around it.
With a loud shout of congratulation I hurried down the hill and joined
them. A sailor who has been wrecked at sea, and who after buffeting
the stormy billows until nature is exhausted, is at length cast on
shore by some friendly wave, never felt a more thrilling sensation of
pleasure or thankfulness, than I did at that moment. In the fulness of
my heart I most fervently thanked heaven for its protection; then
seizing my horse around the neck, I tenderly embraced him, and poured
forth my gratitude and forgiveness to his unconscious ear. Many no
doubt would be disposed to smile at this seeming folly; but let them
reflect that when the spirit has been raised from the lowest depths of
despair to the highest summit of hope and enjoyment--the man must be
cold indeed who does not evince some extravagance in feeling or
conduct, as in the case of the poor man, whose fortunes are suddenly
made by a prize in the lottery, some excuse may be given for a few
irrational freaks and absurd eccentricities. Like all excessive joy,
however, mine was but temporary--or at least not unalloyed, for I soon
discovered that one of my men was missing, having been separated from
his companions during the storm, and not since seen or heard of.
With the aid of a large fire, a sufficient number of blankets, and a
bottle of old Jamaica, we contrived to pass the night in tolerable
comfort, notwithstanding the cold, which was tremendous. Early next
morning, we proceeded to scour the prairie in search of our lost
companion. We searched until late in the evening--but all our efforts
were vain, and we returned once more to the camp. The unfortunate man
had doubtless fallen a victim to the fury of the storm,--for we never
heard of him more. His body probably lay wrapped in its snowy shroud
until spring, when at last it was revealed to the eager eyes of
ravenous birds and beasts. Death is in any shape appalling; and his
near approach will for a moment shake the stoutest heart. It will even
blanch the cheek of the hero, surrounded by the "pomp and circumstance
of glorious war." What then must be the situation of him who is
overtaken by the violence of the wintry storm, and sinks, exhausted by
cold and weariness, on the trackless prairie. For the last time he
hears the night wind, as it chants his funeral dirge,--whilst the
mournful howl of the starving wolf, or the scream of the ill-omened
raven, as he circles in the air, and watches the last vital spark as
it vanishes--disturbs the dying moments of the victim!
For the Southern Literary Messenger.